


highly rated

by bendingsignpost



Series: men with weasels [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Blow Jobs, Awkward Sexual Situations, Body Image, Established Relationship, Hank Anderson is So Done, Humor, Interspecies Romance, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15228654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Hank just wants a blowjob. Connor just wants to do it right.





	highly rated

Hank’s working at his desk, trying his damnedest to have a normal day, when Connor shoots it all to hell again.

 

“Lieutenant,” Connor says, as professional as if he hadn’t had his mouth around Hank’s dick last night, “I’ve identified several programs I could install. They’re all very highly rated.”

 

Hank looks across their desks.

 

Connor looks right back.

 

“Programs,” Hank says.

 

“Yes,” Connor replies. “As they’re all of a personal nature, I would prefer to download them in a non-work environment. Might I accompany you back to your house tonight?”

 

“Is this, uh, for Project Weasel?” Hank checks.

 

Connor beams at him.

 

Hank’s stomach flips over, but his dick wakes up.

 

Connor’s eyes flick down, like he can see through their desks or something. Which he can’t. Hank’s almost sure he can’t. Connor meets his eyes again, reins his smile in, and turns almost stupidly sultry. It’s a microexpression on him, the way Connor still expresses himself when they’re out in public or on the job or…

 

Or when anyone who isn’t Hank is paying attention to him, come to think of it.

 

Anyway, Hank can still read him loud and clear, even if anyone else would probably register Connor somewhere between curious and amused.

 

“We’re at work,” Hank reminds him gruffly, ignoring the heat climbing his neck. He’s been telling himself the same damn thing all day.

 

“Which is why I’d like to go to your house,” Connor confirms.

 

“I still got…” Hank gestures at his computer.

 

“I know. But you’ve been working on reports for a continuous fifty-four minutes, and it would be beneficial for you to engage in a break, if only for casual conversation.”

 

Hank snorts. Casual. Yeah, right.

 

“It would be beneficial,” Connor repeats pointedly.

 

Honestly, there’s a lot of shit that would be beneficial for Hank. Drinking less, eating healthier, all the usual crap. And then there’s the weird shit, the new shit. Waking up stiff and aching because Connor held him in place all night. Waking up pained and weirdly happy because Connor was still right the fuck there, in the exact same position. His absolute lack of motion had Hank more than half-convinced that he’d only slept for a few minutes, not hours.

 

Is that good for him? Bad for him? Those are the kind of questions that don’t mean anything when he still can’t give a crap about himself, but he sure as hell knows he gives a crap about Connor.

 

“Yeah,” Hank says, pushing his chair back. “I’m grabbing some coffee, you want anything? One of your little vampire bags?”

 

Standing with him, Connor insists the way he always has that there is nothing vampiric about drinking blue blood. He lectures Hank about basic maintenance all the way into the break room and then, finding it empty, brushes the back of his hand against Hank’s.

 

Shoulder touching Hank’s, Connor stands close as Hank gets his own human fuel. Voice low, Connor asks, “When is it going to be sufficient?”

 

Jesus, not even twenty-four hours in, and Hank’s fucking the little guy up already.

 

Hank catches Connor by the upper arm, over where his glowing armband used to be. He leans in, aiming for stern. “You’re already sufficient. You hear me? Hell, you can skip on the programs. You make yourself into something you’re not, you stop being you. _That_ would be insufficient.”

 

Head tilted forward, Connor looks up at him with his stupid little smile that just _does shit_ to Hank. “I meant, when is it going to be a sufficient level of physical contact?”

 

Hank frowns. “I just told you. Whatever.”

 

“For me,” Connor clarifies. Another officer walks by the door of the break room, and Connor lowers his voice accordingly. “When can I expect my directive to touch you to be satisfied?”

 

Hank blinks. “Your…”

 

“I thought, if I could touch you for a sustained period of time, it would achieve the directive.” Turning to lean against the counter, Connor uses Hank as a shield between himself and the doorway. He sets his hand back over Hank’s heart, fingertips pushing under Hank’s jacket. “We spooned for six hours, twenty-three minutes and forty-nine seconds. While I achieved satisfaction within the first hour, it could only be maintained by sustaining my position.”

 

Pulling in a deep, deliberate breath, Hank pushes his chest against Connor’s hand.

 

Connor’s eyes fractionally widen. “That… was at once helpful and detrimental.”

 

“Welcome to life,” Hank says, not for the first time.

 

“When will it be sufficient?” Connor repeats. “I’m at a lower rate of completion today than I was yesterday. It makes no sense.”

 

“Makes perfect sense.” Hank brushes his fingers over Connor’s hip before taking his coffee and walking away.

 

Connor’s back at his side immediately, the conversation dropped until they’re back at their desks.

 

“I don’t understand,” Connor says, positioned to at least look toward his computer monitor. “It was full this morning before you got up. It decreased rapidly while you were in the shower, but stabilized while you ate breakfast. It actually _increased_ once you finished eating, despite the lack of physical contact at the time.”

 

“You cooked,” Hank points out.

 

Connor frowns. “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

 

“Eh, you will.”

 

Connor keeps on frowning.

 

“Look, the longer you keep distracting me, the longer it’ll be until we go home,” Hank says, and, bingo, that’s the frown lessened. For such a complex machine, Connor’s one hell of an easy target.

 

They wrap up the day without any new cases falling into their lap. Good thing, too. In the car, Connor immediately puts his hand on Hank’s thigh.

 

“You trying to get us into an accident?”

 

“No,” Connor says. He squeezes Hank’s leg. His fingertips slide further over, approaching Hank’s inseam without making their way higher. “I’m going to refrain from explicit details until you finish the drive.”

 

“I’ve had road head without dying,” Hank tells him, his eyes steadfast on the street. Fucking traffic. Damn rain makes everyone slow down. “I can handle whatever explicit details you got. What’s that shit you’re gonna download?”

 

Connor leans in close, as close as his seat belt will allow. “I sorted them by recipient feedback, and chose the top three rated programs for oral sex in the pertinent categories.”

 

“Pertinent… Why three? Giving head and rimming, what else do you need?”

 

“Teabagging,” Connor says, and he shifts his hand just so.

 

Hank pulls in a hard breath and lets it out in a long shake of air.

 

“Would you like that?” Connor asks. “Because I would.”

 

“I’m a fan,” Hank says, voice coming out a little more strained than he’d like. “Just wondering, but why are you suddenly okay with learning by programs now? Thought you wanted to figure out, what was it, ‘physical intimacy’ on your own.”

 

Connor squeezes his thigh. “Now that I’m permitted prolonged physical contact, I’m no longer as stressed over how I learn to touch you. I’m just pleased I can.”

 

Hank clears his throat but can’t clear his mind. “You, uh. You sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

 

“I just told you: I enjoy touching you,” Connor assures him. “Still, if that’s a concern, I’m certain the experience of you climaxing into my mouth will do a lot.”

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Hank swears, and there ensues a minute of some honking from all around. No actual car accidents, though, despite the dizzle and slippery conditions.

 

After, Connor says, “As much as I enjoy verbally stimulating you, I think I should refrain for the rest of the drive.”

 

“Yeah, no kidding.”

 

Connor keeps his hand where it is, though.

  
  


“You download and whatever, I’ll do dinner,” Hank calls over his shoulder as he dumps his uniform jacket in his bedroom. It’s just the jacket, but he’s still back to wearing it. He should have known he was screwed that first day Connor had finally gotten his own DPD jacket and asked Hank if they could match.

 

“By ‘dinner,’ I know you mean take-out,” Connor calls after him, busy putting Sumo out into the yard.

 

“Yeah, and?” Hank shrugs on down to his t-shirt and steps out of his jeans. Boxers are always good enough for home. “I’ll order a vegetable, so shut your yap.”

 

Coming out of his—their?—bedroom, Hank hears smooth sax play from the turntable. He raises his eyebrows at Connor.

 

Still holding the album sleeve, Connor tilts his head, clearly inviting Hank to comment.

 

“You tryin’ to seduce little ol’ me?” Hank asks, gesturing down at his grungy, grumpy self.

 

“Yes,” Connor states plainly. “Is it working?”

 

“Eh,” Hank says.

 

Connor stalks over to him. Brown eyes narrowed, each step liquid, he prowls across the carpet and right into Hank’s space. “I know you came in the shower this morning,” Connor accuses, voice low with something incredibly close to jealousy. “I held you all night, and you didn’t even jerk off in my arms.”

 

Hank licks his lips, not even realizing he’s doing it until Connor fixates on the motion. “I’ll, uh. You wanted me to?”

 

“I didn’t realize it was an option.” Connor pokes him in the chest with the corner of the album sleeve. “You didn’t tell me you wanted sex this morning.”

 

“Well, somebody here wanted to get to work on time.”

 

Connor’s LED spins a fast swirl of blue. “Can we have sex in the mornings on weekends?”

 

Hank kisses him.

 

Connor lets out a noise of surprise, followed by a pleased hum. He tosses the album sleeve like a frisbee, landing it on the couch like a pro. Then he wraps both arms around Hank’s neck and holds on like he’s the one being seduced.

 

The more Hank kisses him, the more Connor kisses back, the more it’s not just Connor echoing motions and mood. This is Connor picking up new pieces of body language, checking them over for nuance and implication, and coming back at Hank in a conversation that is extremely _Connor_.

 

Hank may have given Connor a sarcastic nip to the lower lip once, but it’s Connor who decides that nibbling at Hank’s lip and soothing it with his tongue is the next big thing in kissing. Connor’s the one who starts sucking on Hank’s tongue before flicking the tip with his own. He doesn’t do much in the way of moving his hands or slotting his body against Hank’s, but, Christ, the improvement over last night is already incredible.

 

Before they can complete a careful shuffle over to the couch, Sumo barks from outside. Hank breaks out of the kiss with a groan. “You download your crap already?” he asks, going for the damn dog.

 

“No,” Connor says, eyes bright, mouth twitching in a restrained grin. He picks up the album sleeve and puts it away while Hank brings Sumo in from doing his post-work piss-and-poop. “Would you like me to order dinner first?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Hank keeps wiping the overgrown mutt’s paws off. “I can manage,” Hank says, pretending to be someone who isn’t a human dumpster fire.

 

“I know.” It’s much too sincere, the way Connor says it. “I still like feeding you, though.”

 

With a grunt, Hank stands up and lets Sumo loose into the house. He drops the towel back next to the door. “You fattening me up for something? Human sacrifice? Long pork?”

 

“The longer you live, the more sex I can have with you,” Connor points out.

 

It’s a fantastic distraction, but Hank can read between those lines. “So you’re saying if I let you order dinner, you’re gonna sneak in all the healthy options you can find.”

 

“No,” Connor says in that tone where he’s not even bothering to hide the lie. “I would be perfectly obedient.”

 

Hank snorts. “Uh-huh. Then how about a meat lover’s pizza with extra cheese?”

 

Connor’s LED flashes yellow. “Done. I’m going to commence the download now.”

 

“Sit down first. You know it confuses Sumo when you stand there and won’t pet him.”

 

Nodding, Connor sits, only to be immediately sat on. That stupid dog loves him.

 

Hank stares at the pair of them a bit too long. Connor with his closed eyes and his LED circling yellow, his hands stationary in Sumo’s fur. Sumo’s absolute comfort with his paws and head on Connor’s leg. They fit together, there on Hank’s couch, one sprawling and relaxed, one upright and thinking.

 

It’s nothing like a wife and a kid. It’s so far from it, the thought doesn’t even hurt. This is new. Different.

 

This is something that’s still his to keep.

 

Christ, Hank’s going soft in his old age.

 

He takes advantage of the quiet moment while it lasts, and he feels a lot more like himself afterward. Job done, he leans back against the counter in the kitchen, admiring his handiwork from afar while opening a beer.

 

“...Hank?” Connor calls, clearly having just finished his update.

 

Hank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah?”

 

Connor tilts his head to the side, and all of Hank’s clean towels, neatly folded and carefully stacked, fall off. “Why do you insist on stacking things on me when I’m in standby?”

 

Hank counters with the obvious question: “When else am I gonna do it?”

 

Connor twists around to look at him. “You could always… _not_ do it.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Connor shifts around and turns off the music in exchange for the TV. Once Hank’s food arrives, Hank joins him, grumbling over the small pizza and the large, unasked for salad. No matter how vindictively he spears the vegetables or how obnoxiously he chomps, Connor just keeps on grinning, the little bastard. He’s a conniving snake in the grass, no matter how much Hank likes the crumbly goat cheese stuff or how the olives are missing.

 

For once, Connor gets up to bring him a beer. He sits back down, shooing Sumo to the side, and lifts Hank’s arm to position himself beneath it.

 

“Have I relaxed sufficiently?” Connor asks.

 

“You? You could always stand to loosen up more.”

 

Connor makes a doubtful noise, but he also makes the attempt. It’s a little bit like feeling an adjustable mattress transition, the firmness steadily decreasing before making an abrupt halt. “How about now?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

 

Connor shifts, wedging his shoulder under Hank’s armpit. He can’t seem to figure out where to lean his head, and Hank winds up watching Connor’s reflection in the TV screen more than anything on it. So fucking ridiculous.

 

Hank drinks his beer. He cuddles his… whatever Connor is.

 

“Everything install all right?” Hank asks, pretending to watch the commercials.

 

“I encountered no errors. Also, there were some unexpected coloring subroutines I think you’d like.”

 

“Coloring?” Hank repeats, frowning. “What, you want to take a break for a post-coital crayon?”

 

Shaking his head, Connor smiles up at him. “Watch,” he says, and blushes.

 

“Would you look at that.” Hank shifts to get a better angle, reaching up to tilt Connor’s head this way and that.

 

The flush deepens.

 

“Do you like it?” Connor asks.

 

“Yeah.” Hank presses down on Connor’s skin with his thumb and watches the color drain out, only to flood back in when he lifts his finger. “Yeah, it really suits you.” It makes his freckles pop.

 

“I want to find more ways to indicate my enthusiasm,” Connor explains. “Once I have a phallus, I’ll have a much more blatant signaling system. Would you like to accompany me this weekend?”

 

“Accompany you where?”

 

“To purchase a phallus.”

 

Hank stares at him, and at least the flush makes Connor looks as embarrassed as he should be.

 

“What?” Connor asks, turning the flush off. He goes back to pale so rapidly, Hank has a split second of concern, his heart kicking up in alarm before settling down with a grumble.

 

“Don’t you think that’s something you should do on your own? Something private?”

 

Connor tilts his head ever-so-slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls in an expression Hank knows all too well. “Really, Hank? You don’t want to watch me try them on?”

 

Hank’s mouth goes dry.

 

“I mean, if you don’t want to...” Connor continues, looking up at Hank through his lashes.

 

Hank rolls his eyes and kisses the bastard. Connor smirks against his mouth, but screw him.

 

The kissing improves. It’s still weird, but it improves. No matter how Hank strokes Connor’s back or pets his hair, Connor keeps up this methodical routine of putting his hands on Hank. Not all over Hank. Just on him. The side of his neck. His nape. His ears. His shoulders and upper arms. Two spots on his chest. There’s no real sliding transition between the spots either, more like Hank is a rock wall Connor’s trying to climb, with handholds only in those areas.

 

But what the hell. It’s a damn fine Day Two. At this rate, Connor will be porn star material in a month.

 

Maybe even a couple weeks.

 

Before too long, Hank’s buzzing with something other than alcohol. He’s loose and unwound, an unfamiliar state while sober, but Connor makes it work. Connor makes it fucking worth it. Even if he is licking at the same spot on Hank’s neck over and over again, like Sumo on the kitchen floor the last time Hank spilled maple syrup.

 

“Hey,” Hank interrupts, tugging on Connor’s hair.

 

“I sanitized my mouth first,” Connor promises, his cheeks pleasingly flushed.

 

“That… was not what I was gonna say.”

 

“Oh. Good. But I still did. I know how you dislike watching me put evidence in my mouth, so I made sure.” Connor smiles up at him with this absurdly satisfied little grin. “The only biological material on my tongue is yours.”

 

“That’s, uh. Something.”

 

Connor hums confirmation and pulls Hank back in for more kissing. Hank guides Connor’s hands around a bit more smoothly, and that helps. He traces nonsense patterns on Connor’s back in the hope of getting his point across, but he distracts himself. Or maybe Connor distracts him, pushing him down against the arm of the couch and slipping his firm thigh against Hank’s boner.

 

“Hey,” Hank interrupts again.

 

“Mm?”

 

“How far down does that blush go?”

 

“As far as I want,” Connor answers, tone way too practical as he noses back in.

 

“Nuh-uh. Connor. I ask you how far down it goes, you tell me you’ll show me in the bedroom.”

 

With a quick blue spin of his LED, Connor blinks at him. “That wasn’t one of the scripts I downloaded.”

 

“Human shortcut? Whenever you promise a guy sex, keep an eye out for excuses for privacy.”

 

The LED only spins faster. “Hank, we’re alone.”

 

Hank looks at him.

 

“Sumo doesn’t count,” Connor insists.

 

“Did you hear that, boy?” Hank calls around the android on top of him. “Did you hear what the bad man said?”

 

“Boof,” Sumo agrees before whining his way into a yawn. But then he thumps his tail twice, the traitor.

 

Alone and abandoned as the one person with any sense here, Hank pushes at Connor’s shoulder. “C’mon, bedroom time. Unless you wanna get jealous of the shower again.”

 

“A shower will be necessary for entirely different reasons,” Connor assures him, pulling Hank to his feet.

 

“Surprised you don’t want to—Sumo, _stay—_ surprised you don’t want to lick all the sweat off me instead, the way you’re going.”

 

Leading the way to the bedroom, Connor stops and turns on his heel in a motion as fluid as it is mechanical. His eyes are wide. “Could I?”

 

“No.”

 

Beyond the tilt to his head and a small pout, a fucking _pout_ , Connor doesn’t argue. “But you’re still going to come into my mouth?”

 

“Not sure if that’s weird or sexy.” Hank shoos him into the bedroom anyway, closing the door behind them.

 

Instead of answering, Connor flips his tie over his shoulder and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

 

Hank’s drawn in despite himself, not that he even tries to resist. He tugs Connor’s shirt out of his pants. Connor tugs Hank right back, popping buttons with one hand while pulling on Hank’s t-shirt with the other.

 

“You don’t have to wear the tie every time,” Hank tells him between kisses.

 

“You like it.”

 

“Yeah, but.” Unable to vocalize the rest, Hank just keeps right on kissing him—only to let out a noise of surprise when Connor slips the loosened loop of his tie over both their heads. “Hey!”

 

Cheeks flushed, Connor tightens the tie back up. It still hangs loose around Hank’s neck, but it’s no longer in danger of falling off. “I think I like this too. Even if it is backwards.”

 

“We’re doing everything backwards.” Hank shoves Connor’s shirt down his arms. The moment Connor sheds it, his hands are back on Hank’s hips, steering him toward the bed. Hank sits heavily, but Connor refuses to be pulled down with him.

 

“I’d like to initiate the program now,” Connor tells him.

 

“You’re good with it?” Hank checks. “All the little instructions or whatever?”

 

Connor nods rapidly, his LED pulsing a rapid blue. Jesus, he’s a fucking vision like this. The flush really does go all the way down, the pale skin of his smooth, hairless chest blossoming with color. So toned, so firm. Things get a little hinky below the belt, still on, what with Connor as flat as a trans man without a packer, but it’s nothing Hank hasn’t seen before.

 

“You wanna take your pants off?” Hank asks.

 

“Not particularly,” Connor says, eyebrow raised just so.

 

“Asshole.”

 

Smirking, Connor steps back, drops his trousers, steps again, and does this little kick. He catches his pants right out of the air, folds them in the blink of an eye, and drops them neatly onto the floor.

 

“First the coin tricks, now this,” Hank complains. “I should’ve seen the puns coming, after the goddamn coin tricks.”

 

“I’ve been good tonight,” Connor says. “I promise you’ll like these tricks better.”

 

“That was really fucking close to a pun.”

 

Connor shakes his head. He reaches out to hold the end of his tie on Hank, and he steps in, pressing his legs between Hank’s. Hank lets him in. In between his legs, in his arms, in his mouth. He touches the surprisingly vast expanse of Connor’s back, and Connor grinds their crotches together, two very different kinds of firm.

 

Hank groans around Connor’s tongue, the strangely slick, oddly not-exactly-wet surface of it. He pulls Connor down harder, but Connor breaks the kiss, thrusting against him so clumsily, it’s adorable.

 

“This,” Connor murmurs.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This,” Connor says, nodding faintly, rubbing his lips against Hank’s. Another pseudo-thrust. “This is fucking close.”

 

It takes a second, and then Hank cuffs him upside the head. Or tries to. Connor blocks him, sporting a grin Hank knows all too well from his own face. Dear god, he’s corrupted an android.

 

“No. Hell no. Look, sex is like… Arousal is like, it’s a mountain. It goes up, and then it comes down. Maybe you got some foothills, but you got your up, and you got your down. Knock it off with this yo-yo bullshit, my dick can’t take it.”

 

“Sorry,” Connor says, still grinning, absolutely lying. “As long as you’re reacting positively, it’s hard to stop.”

 

“How is this reacting positively?”

 

“You still like me,” Connor says, much more confidently than Hank would have thought possible after last night’s awful first try.

 

Hank swats him again, and this time, Connor lets him. The asshole’s completely indulgent expression takes all the joy out of it. “Don’t push your luck. Thought you wanted to try out your new program.”

 

“Anticipation increases your arousal,” Connor answers. “When it plateaus-”

 

“When it plateaus, that’s called frustration, dumbass.” Leaning back on one hand, Hank works himself through his boxers with the other, privately loving how Connor immediately focuses on the prize. “You wanna run one of your real-time analysis things on my spunk or what?”

 

“You’re so romantic, Hank,” Connor states flatly.

 

But then he smiles.

 

Someday, Connor will stop being so goddamn gorgeous. It’ll be the exact same day Hank’s eyesight goes to hell.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting you at optimal arousal,” Connor continues, putting his fingers in Hank’s hair. Not stroking, per se. Just putting his hand there and looking at him.

 

“The hell does that mean?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Connor admits, “but I’ll know it when I see it. Speaking of seeing, will you take your t-shirt off?”

 

There’s no way Connor misses how Hank’s pulse jumps.

 

“Or not,” Connor says, which is somehow worse than insisting. And then the zinger: “If it’ll interfere with your arousal, you should keep it on.”

 

Glowering, Hank bites the bullet. “Nah, you want shirtless, you get shirtless.” It comes out aggressive, with no small hint of _be careful what you wish for_ and a heaping helping of _I told you so_ delivered in advance.

 

He pulls off Connor’s tie, and then he yanks his t-shirt off over his head. He bares his sweaty, hairy pits. He reveals where his pecs approach the line to man boob. He shows off a furry belly that would hardly be out of place on Sumo. He used to be toned, but he’s never been sleek, not since before puberty hit.

 

Hank is hair, hair, hair, wiry and gross, like his pubes decided to annex his navel. He’s got hair around his nipples. He’s got hair across his chest. The less said about his back, the better. He’s shag carpet gone gray. He’s a regular Chewbacca, and that’s before he gets damp and sweaty with sex.

 

Connor stares.

 

Blue kicks up to yellow.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll put it back on,” Hank says, red for all the wrong reasons. He can feel the rest of him turning red too, skin pale from darkness and splotchy from genes. Great. Like the random dark hairs still peppering his chest didn’t make him look weird enough.

 

Connor catches his wrist. His expression is soft, but his grip might as well be a handcuff. “Can you explain what’s wrong?”

 

“ _Jesus_.” All the blood rushes out of his dick and into his face. “It’s not _wrong_ , I’m just like this, okay?”

 

“Like what?” Connor asks, but he’s still fucking looking at Hank’s chest, still pulsing that quick yellow light.

 

“Like _this_.” He gestures with his other hand indicating more or less his entire body.

 

With a frown, Connor tilts his head. “You’re in remarkably good health, considering your lifestyle.”

 

Christ, of all the times to play dumb. “I haven’t exactly been keeping up with the manscaping, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Connor says simply. “Will you be less distressed if you put your shirt on, or would it help if I touched you?”

 

Hank pulls his arm free. He’s got his head inside the t-shirt when Connor asks, “Can I touch you under your t-shirt?”

 

Hank pops his head out. “What?”

 

Connor sits down next to him, still yellow, yellow, yellow. “I’d like to touch you. Am I permitted to place my hands directly against your skin, or should I keep them over your shirt?”

 

“You don’t gotta humor me.”

 

Connor blinks. “All right. Will you humor me instead?”

 

Hank rolls his eyes, looking away. “Yeah, whatever.”

 

Wrapping an arm around Hank’s waist, Connor kisses his shoulder through his t-shirt. His other hand creeps through the air like he thinks Hank might try to dodge away. Slowly, Connor slips his fingertips up under the hem of Hank’s t-shirt. He touches Hank’s gut. The rise of one of his love handles. It’s no brushing glide, this exploration. No, Connor switches fingers from spot to spot. From navel to hip, from nipple to armpit.

 

Connor retracts his hand and, looking intently at Hank’s face, he kitten licks his fingertips. He flushes deeper with each lick, and his LED’s yellow goes from indecipherable to that familiar processing glow. Finished with his fingertips, he licks a quick stripe up the undersides of each finger, taking his sweet time about it. His ring finger, he does twice. His cheeks are so damn red, his eyes beautifully dark.

 

“That seriously doing it for you?” Hank aims for gruff but comes out quiet.

 

Sucking on his index finger, Connor nods. Those fucking lips, closed tight.

 

Hank takes him by the wrist. Connor pops off his own finger, but Hank does him one better and sucks on his thumb for him.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Connor says. “This, I like this.”

 

Yeah, Hank remembers that from last night. He hums a question, mostly just to see Connor respond to the vibration.

 

He doesn’t disappoint. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Face flushed. His yellow LED freezes in place for a split second, his processing halted.

 

“I’m…” Connor mimics the motion of swallowing. “My hands are very sensitive. Compared to the rest of my body, the number of receptors...”

 

Sucking hard, careful about his teeth, Hank swirls his tongue around.

 

Connor stops talking.

 

Hank keeps doing it.

 

They shift on the bed together, Connor slowly feeding Hank more and more of his fingers. They experiment. Thumb and index finger definitely seem to be the most sensitive, and Hank winds up in the strange situation of having both in his mouth, Connor’s fingers a little circle, like they’re trying for a sharp, cooperative whistle.

 

It’s as fucking weird as the rest of it, but screw it. Connor’s clearly into it. With his other hand, Hank reaches low. He raises his eyebrows, Connor nods, and Hank rubs him at the apex of his thighs. It’s like feeling up a warm mannequin. Just a smooth, curved surface beneath his briefs.

 

Hank feels around a bit more anyway. He drags the cloth against Connor’s skin down there in tight circles over where a clit would be. He presses hard and he teases light. Connor’s only real response is to thurst his fingers deeper into Hank’s mouth, an insistent reminder to keep sucking and licking.

 

Still trying to make progress with the crotch territory, Hank tries to double-task. Eventually, Connor pulls Hank’s hand away from his crotch in order to suck on Hank’s fingers. Soon after that, Hank lets go of Connor’s wrist to adjust things at his own crotch. He’s never gonna get used to Connor’s mouth, only wet the way a gel surface is wet. All slide, zero mess.

 

Connor pulls off. “I’d like to start the program now. There’s a…” Blue whirls. “It’s optional, but there’s a build-up portion I’d like to do. It would involve you having your shirt off, however.”

 

“You just wanna lick me directly, huh.”

 

Connor’s expression turns criminally innocent. “Foreplay is important.”

 

Hank’s pulse ratchets up.

 

“It’s optional,” Connor reminds him.

 

Fuck it.

 

Hank pulls his t-shirt off.

 

Looking at Hank’s face instead of his chest, Connor beams.

 

“Okay, okay,” Hank huffs. “Thought you were being all Mr. Eager over here.”

 

“That isn’t one of the surnames I’ve considered,” Connor says, still smiling. He leans in and kisses Hank, systematic in his inspection of every corner of Hank’s mouth. There are certain depths it’s generally considered weird to stuck a tongue into someone else’s mouth, but Connor never got that memo. Still okay, though. It’s not like the guy can get deep enough with his tongue to gag him.

 

Still kissing him, Connor climbs off the bed, positioning Hank by hand to sit at the edge of it. Evidently satisfied, Connor hums and moves his oral investigation to Hank’s neck.

 

Hank holds Connor in place despite the awkward slant the guy’s hunched at. “What do I, uh?”

 

“React however you want to,” Connor says against his throat. “I’ll compensate.”

 

Hank twists his fingers in Connor’s hair, already imagining doing the same with Connor’s mouth moving over his dick. “Cool.”

 

“Engaging program… now.”

 

There’s a flick of yellow between pulses of blue, and _holy shit_ , the difference. Connor goes from sampling Hank’s neck for test results, to working on a hickey with gusto. Connor’s hands start moving properly, stroking his arms, his chest. Connor’s fingers squeeze. His thumb circles Hank’s nipple, slow and gentle, then hard and fast, alternating without warning as Connor keeps showering his neck with affection.

 

Hank drops his head back and groans. “Christ, Connor.” It’s all he can do to keep his hands off his dick. He grabs onto Connor instead, Connor who’s gone soft and pliant in a way Hank’s never felt him. He’s still all svelte muscle, but there’s _give_ to him now.

 

Pushing Hank onto his back, Connor trails down his chest, his mouth in the lead, his hands following. His upper body brushes against Hank’s boner, and then his hands snap down to Hank’s thighs when Hank rolls up against him. Those brushes become more and more deliberate until it’s a continuous press, Connor’s chest undulating against him as Connor bites at his nipples.

 

It’s amazing. It’s fucking perfect. It’s perfect fucking.

 

Sinking lower, Connor drags Hank’s boxers off. He kisses the insides of Hank’s thighs, pushing them wider, and the side of Hank’s dick hits against Connor’s temple, his hair. Lying on his back, unable to open his eyes, Hank shudders with that unexpected jerk of sensation. He’s naked and spread and so fucking hard he can’t breathe.

 

And Connor? Connor kisses Hank’s sack like he ran across a field of daisies in slow motion to do it. Music swelling. Camera spinning around them. All that shit. The goddamn hills are alive with the sound of blowjobs.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hank swears. Blindly, he gropes for the top of Connor’s head. He’s gone boneless. He’s never gonna sit up again. His eyes have forgotten how to open.

 

Connor strokes his thighs and sucks his balls until Hank has no choice but to fist himself, and then Connor pulls Hank’s hand away and replaces it with his perfect goddamn mouth. Hank lets out a noise three parts profanity, five parts sex, most of it Connor’s name.

 

He thrusts up, involuntary, and Connor rides it with his mouth. Connor gets his hands going, one beneath his lips, the other still around Hank’s balls, and the noises Hank’s making aren’t even half as obscene as Connor’s moans around his dick. The guy sounds more turned on than Hank’s ever heard him, and fuck if that isn’t pushing Hank fast toward the edge.

 

He’s gotta see this.

 

He’s gotta, fuck.

 

Straining, arms liquid, Hank fights to sit up. He wraps a leg around Connor’s back and tugs, straining his core, and Connor groans approval right into him. Hank nearly drops back down, but he makes it, he scales that mountain, he sits the fuck up and pries his eyes open and he looks down at his hand in Connor’s hair, at Connor going to town, at his own splotchy, hairy, heaving chest, and Connor’s blatant enjoyment of the proceedings.

 

“Ahh, fuck,” Hank sighs, struggling to keep his eyes open. He’s gotta memorize this. He’s gotta remember this forever. The fucking pornographic noises Connor makes deep-throating him, his lips stretched, his throat working. Settling down between Hank’s legs, Connor grabs at Hank’s ass, using Hank to fuck his own throat, and it’s as goddamn arousing as it is alarming. Hank knows from experience he couldn’t do that himself if he tried.

 

“Shit, you okay?” Hank pants, half a minute from jizzing anyway. “You like that?”

 

With a drag of tight lips and a slow swirl of the tongue, Connor pulls off only to press a kiss against the shaft. His eyes are glazed, his cheeks pink, his simulated breathing heavy. He looks like an entirely different person.

 

With hooded eyes and a loose body, he looks up at Hank. He licks his lips, slow and lingering, no trace of the usual darting tongue of analysis. Voice lusty and uncanny, he says, “Yeah, baby. Choke me with that cock.”

 

A thousand little, monumental things collide, and Hank’s back in the CyberLife basement warehouse, Hank’s barreling into one horrifying, inescapable conclusion:

 

 _That’s not Connor_.

 

Hank shouts and kicks, a one-two combo that knocks the thing’s head back and gets it in the chest. He scrambles backward onto his bed, t-shirt grabbed as a flimsy protective barrier over his crotch. The words “ _Who are you!_ ” bellow out of him, as charged with anger and fear as he’d just been with arousal.

 

Stunned on Hank’s bedroom carpet, Connor sits back on his heels, eyes wide, hand over one broken-white cheek. Beyond the red spin of his LED and the return of color across his damaged cheek, Connor doesn’t move. But the stiffness, the angles, the look on his face. That’s Connor.

 

“Connor?” Hank checks. “Connor!” He scrambles off the bed after him, heart pounding. He goes to his knees, totally naked, and grabs Connor by the head like he can force out malware with the pressure of his thumbs. “Shit, uh. Uh. Error report!” he yells.

 

Still burning red in both his LED and cheeks, Connor looks at him like he’s an idiot.

 

Hank heaves a sigh of relief and effectively collapses to sit on the floor. “Jesus Christ.” He drops his head into his hands. “Gave me the scare of my fucking life, kid.”

 

Connor stands up. Face turned away, he starts putting on his pants.

 

Pushing himself up with help from his bed, Hank reaches out. “You okay?”

 

“You kicked me in the face,” Connor says flatly, pulling away.

 

“That wasn’t you. That didn’t even look like you.”

 

Connor starts on his shirt. He ducks his head to keep an eye on his buttons, even though Hank knows he doesn’t need to. “I always look like this.”

 

“No, it looked like that program took you over or something, it-”

 

“I was executing it!” Connor interrupts. “I was doing it perfectly, Hank, but apparently not even that is good enough for you! I’m _trying_ , okay? I’m not programmed to fail, that is _not_ something I do.”

 

Hank reaches. “Connor-”

 

Another step back. “No!”

 

They stand there, Hank naked and pulsing with adrenaline, Connor increasingly clothed and pulsing red light. Connor darts past him, grabs his tie off the bed, and heads to the door.

 

With nothing more than his t-shirt over his crotch, Hank follows, windows be damned. “Where the hell are you going?”

 

“Home,” Connor says, picking up his shoes from beside the door.

 

“Look, let’s just cool down-”

 

Connor turns on him. “You kicked me. In the face.”

 

“Yeah, and I’m fucking sorry!” Hank stops. Tries again. “I really am fucking sorry,” he says, rubbing at his face.

 

“You could’ve just said stop.”

 

“Didn’t look like you,” Hank repeats, shaking his head. “Movement, body language, hell, _language-_ language, it was all wrong.”

 

“I was following. The program,” Connor says, like Hank’s a Grade A moron. Which, after tonight, fair.

 

“Connor, last time somebody with your face wasn’t you, I almost got shot in the head,” Hank reminds him. “Forgive a guy his panic attack, okay?”

 

Connor flicks down to yellow.

 

Hank continues to shield his crotch, especially as Sumo comes up to investigate, whining at the obviously tense mood. Sumo butts his head against Connor’s hand until Connor finally gives in and pets him. Hank would give anything to have some pants on, but he knows the second he goes back into his bedroom, that’s Connor out the door.

 

“You were right the first time around, you know,” Hank says, watching Connor be Connor with all his weird, android awkwardness.

 

Otherwise focused on the dog, Connor glances up at him.

 

“We’re not gonna get ‘physical intimacy’ with some program,” Hank says. “You were right.”

 

“But you liked it better.”

 

“When I thought it was you.”

 

“It was me the whole time,” Connor says, face down-turned, as close to sulking as Hank’s ever seen him. He rubs Sumo’s ears with both hands, like Sumo’s the only one who understands him. In return, Sumo pants up at him adoringly, tail wagging. Sumo’s good for that.

 

“Didn’t feel like you, that’s all,” Hank says.

 

“You don’t like it when it feels like me.”

 

“I like _you_ when you feel like you.”

 

Connor keeps on frowning.

 

“Look.” Hank wipes at his face. “If I’m not having sex with _you_ , then what’s the point? If I want porn, I can get it. You want me lying there, pretending to be someone else?”

 

“...No,” Connor mumbles sullenly.

 

“Then why’d you say that stuff? Act like that?”

 

With just one shoulder, Connor shrugs. “It’s what the personality frame was in the program. That was highly rated as well.”

 

A sneaking suspicion makes it all the way up to the back of Hank’s head and then smacks him as hard as it can. “Connor, when was this program designed?”

 

“March eighth, two thousand thirty-seven. Why?”

 

“You mean, it was designed before anyone thought you guys were sentient,” Hank concludes.

 

“Yes?” Connor frowns at him, but at least that’s eye contact. “Why is that important?”

 

“‘Cause if it was meant for you _now_ , it wouldn’t have tried to give you another personality,” Hank tells him flatly.

 

Connor’s eyes look from side to side, scanning something in the air or on the internet that Hank can’t see. He frowns deeply. “I made a mistake,” he says, and sounds surprised.

 

“Yeah, well, me too. I didn’t mean to kick you. I mean, I meant to kick, but not _you_ , you know?”

 

Connor doesn’t even seem to be listening to him. “I’m not programmed for failure.”

 

“So? I wasn’t either.”

 

“I’m not joking, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank winces. “Neither am I. Okay? I went from hotshot to a piece of shit overnight. I know how shitty it feels.” He’s got years of empty bottles to show how well he’d coped with that. If he’d had some advice instead, they might actually get somewhere, but all Hank can really do is try.

 

This time, Connor holds still when Hank reaches out.

 

He lets Hank squeeze his shoulder.

 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Hank says, “the first time I rimmed my ex-wife, she farted in my mouth.”

 

Connor’s eyes search across Hank’s face. “You’re… not making that up.”

 

“Wish I was. Must’ve pushed too much air up her ass, fingering her.”

 

Connor keeps looking at him long and hard. He spins yellow. Gradually, he slows.

 

And then they’re back at blue.

 

“I don’t understand why this is so difficult,” Connor says, looking through Hank and into his own frustrations.

 

“For what it’s worth, failure’s not the end of the world anymore,” Hank points out. “Nobody’s gonna scrap you.”

 

“But if I’m defective...” Connor starts to say before ramping back up to yellow. His eyes focus back on Hank’s. “Is this why you’re suicidal? If you’re defective, you deserve to be destroyed, is that it?”

 

“That’s… no,” Hank says, more than a little alarmed Connor got there so quickly. “That’s not my brand of it. Kinda worried it could be yours.”

 

“No, I don’t… I don’t want to die,” Connor tells him, firm and confident. He stays at yellow, though. “But… Failure meant destruction. Meant death. And I don’t want to die.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

Hank tugs him in. Connor wraps his arms around Hank’s shoulders, pressing their bodies tight. Hank plants a hard kiss on his LED.

 

“Not anymore,” he hears himself say. “Nobody’s scrapping you.”

 

“I need to do this right,” Connor insists.

 

Hank swallows his pride and shoves down his nerves. “Hey. Do I still like you?”

 

The LED circles against Hank’s lips, Connor’s face still wedged in his shoulder. Hank’s hand holding his t-shirt over his crotch starts to get a little cramped between them, but screw it.

 

“Connor?” Hank prompts.

 

“...yes,” Connor whispers, like maybe he’s not so sure.

 

“Then yeah, I’d say you’re doing it right.”

 

Connor hugs him tight.

 

They hold each other for a long time, enough for Sumo to get bored and wander back to his bowl. The loud noises of him lapping up water more or less ruin the moment.

 

“How are you good at this?” Connor asks.

 

“Not that good, I kicked you in the face.”

 

“I mean, this,” Connor says, putting his hand over Hank’s heart, over skin and bone and way too much chest hair.

 

Hank shrugs. “Might be a surprise, but I was actually a pretty good husband. I’m just shit at grieving, that’s all.”

 

“That wasn’t an answer.”

 

“Not sure I got one.”

 

Connor frowns but accepts it.

 

“You staying the night?” Hank asks.

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They go back inside the bedroom. Hank shuts the door. Tentative, slow about it to the point of pain, Connor removes his clothes. He doesn’t do that little flip with his pants again, but he does fold them. Ditto his shirt.

 

Hank, on the other hand, pulls on his boxers. It feels better. More equal. Extremely frustrated in the dick department, but still better.

 

They lie in bed together. Cuddling, mostly. Making out a little. Hank tries to start a playful tussle only to end up pinned on his back, and that’ll be a game for another night. They kiss more, but Hank never gets it back up. He doesn’t really try to. If things go sideways twice in one night, it’ll definitely be more than Connor can take.

 

So they keep it light instead, until Connor shoos Hank out to brush his teeth and get ready for sleep. Connor invites the dog onto the bed, spoiled brat the big guy is. This time, Hank directs Connor onto his back and sprawls on top of him, off-center, his face finding the air pocket in the crook of Connor’s neck.

 

“I like the way your body feels on top of mine,” Connor murmurs, petting Hank’s hair. “You’ve distributed your weight onto me in the expectation I’ll support you. It’s nice.”

 

Hank snorts, knowing exactly what Connor means. “You could try doing it, too.”

 

“All right.” Connor scratches Hank behind the ear like he’s a fucking dog, and the kicker is, it really does feel good. “I’ll try that tomorrow.”

 

“Perfect,” Hank mumbles against him, and it really is.

 

He sleeps.

 

Later, he’ll wake to a mouth teasing his open. He’ll wake to hands warm on his skin. To a considering hum at the taste of his morning breath, and a loose, relaxed weight on top of him.

 

Later, he’ll climb out of bed and into a shower. He will stand and Connor will kneel. Two hands on his dick, a mismatched pair. Connor’s eyes, open despite the falling water. Connor’s mouth, open and waiting. Connor’s eyes and mouth, both smiling as they dry themselves off.

 

Later, he’ll do a lot of things.

 

But, for now, he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> To see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


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